The Cask of Amontillado: Ranger's Apprentice Style
by Luvergirl of Books
Summary: Do we have any Edgar Allan Poe fans out there? If so and even if not here is something you ought to like! The Cask of Amontillado with a little twist, featuring everyone's favorite Corps commandant. And just to make things clear: this story does not belong to me. Enjoy, lovers of FanFiction!


**A/N:** this one's pretty intense. Anyone like the works of Edgar Allen Poe? Welcome, welcome!

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He had been my friend for many years, but that slowly changed. It had seemed to be all in good fun, but gradually, ever so gradually, the jests became sardonic jeers. I bore thousands of injuries from him, but when he ventured to insult, I vowed for revenge.

Do not believe that I ever uttered this threat; _at length_ I would be avenged, this was a point definitely settled—but that alone wasn't enough. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity.

I, Crowley, never gave him any cause to doubt my goodwill; neither by word or action. I continued to smile at him, and he didn't realize that my smile _now_ was at the thought of his destruction.

He had a weak point, my acquaintance did, although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. I knew that he had a low tolerance for alcohol. Few of his fellow countrymen shared the same low forbearance, but he enjoyed it so.

It was around dusk, during the absolute craziness of a carnival, that I encountered my friend. He met me with extreme warmth—he had consumed much to drink. He wore his normal clothing, despite the festivities; the only odd thing on his person was a leather headband with bells woven into it. I was so pleased to see him that I wasn't sure if I would ever cease to shake his hand.

I said: "My friend, you are luckily met. You look wonderful today! But I have received a cask of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts on its true nature.

"How?" said he. "Amontillado? Not possible! And in the middle of the carnival?"

"I told you, I have my doubts," I replied. "But I am almost completely certain that it is true to form, and there is no one else whom I would rather share a drink of it with."

"Amontillado!"

"I believe so."

"Amontillado!"

"I must satisfy my tastes."

"Amontillado!"

"As I say, you have a previous engagement," I say to him, "and I am on my way to see Darrel. If you are unable to come and drink with me, taste this drink that appears to be Amontillado, it is he—"

"Darrel cannot tell a great drink like that apart from Sherry. Come, let us go."

"Go where, my friend?"

"To your vaults."

"I cannot impose upon your good nature. I assume you have somewhere to be. Darrel—"

"I have no engagement;—come."

"My friend, no," I insisted. "It is not the engagement, but the severe cold which I believe you have come down with. My vaults are extremely damp. They are covered with niter.

"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado!"

And with this, he possessed himself of my arm. Covering my face with a carnival mask, I suffered him to hurry me to my crypts.

I took two torches from their brackets on the wall, lighting them with my steel and flint, and gave one of them to him. We passed down the long, winding staircase, telling him to take extreme caution as he followed my footsteps.

My friend's gait was unsteady to say the least, the bells on his headband jingling as he strode.

"The cask?" he said.

"It's farther on," said I; "but see the web-work on these cavern walls."

He turned to me, looking into my eyes with two filmy orbs that were cloudy and glazed over from drunkenness.

"Niter?" he asked, at length.

"Niter," I replied. "…How long have you had that cough?

My poor friend found himself unable to respond for some minutes, as he was overtaken by a mad fit of coughing.

"It is nothing," he finally choked out.

"Come," I told him decisively, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are a respected person with many people who care for you; you are happy, as I once was. You are a man to be missed; for me it doesn't matter. I can't be responsible for you getting sick. Besides, there is Darrel—"

"Enough," he said to me. "The cough is nothing; it won't kill me. I won't die of a cough."

"True—true," I replied, "and, really, I don't mean to alarm you, but you should use all possible caution. A drink of this wine will keep us from sickness."

I popped the cork of the bottle and took a draft of its contents, offering it to my friend. "Drink," I demanded.

He raised the bottle to his lips, took a drink and nodded at me, bells jingling. "I drink to the bones of the dead around us," he said.

"And I to your long life."

Once again, he took my arm, and we continued down the long halls.

"These vaults," he said, "are extensive."

As we progressed, we passed walls piled with bones, and traveled to the innermost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, grabbing my friend's elbow and bringing him to a stop. "See," I said, "the niter; it increases. We are below the riverbed, see how the moisture drips among the large piles of bones. Come, we will go back, your cough—"

"It's nothing," he interrupted. "We go on. But perhaps, another draft of the wine."

I reached into my cloak, instead pulling out a bottle of whiskey from its folds; he was drunk enough, he didn't notice the difference. He emptied it easily, and instantly a drunken red flush tinted his cheeks, and his eyes burned alight.

As we descended, we passed many arches, small piles of bones and a much larger pile. We arrived at the deep parts of the crypt, the air so foul that our torches were reduced to a mere glow.

At the most remote end of the vaults there was another, smaller. It shrank as we progressed; about three feet across, six or seven feet high. Bones and remains piled ever higher, as if they were placed for a specific purpose. The floor and walls were made of solid granite.

My friend attempted to peer toward the edge of the recesses, but the feeble light of the torch was not enough, and his attempt was in vain.

"This way is the Amontillado," I said. "As for Darrel—"

"He is stupid," he interrupted, stepping unsteadily forward. I followed right at his heels. In an instant, he had reached the end of the small passage, and stood stupidly bewildered. In that moment, I shackled him to the granite, with chains through a loop in the wall. Taking out the key, I stepped back.

"Again, I must _implore_ you to turn back," I said. "No? Then I suppose I have to leave you. But first, I will further prevent your progress."

"The Amontillado!" my friend called out as I walked away.

"True," I replied, "the Amontillado."

As I said this, I rummaged around in the bones I had mentioned before. Throwing them aside, I uncovered lots of building stone and mortar. With these materials and a trowel, I began to vigorously wall up the entrance to the small niche.

I had just laid the first tier when I realized that most of my friend's intoxication had worn off. There was a low moaning cry from the depths of the niche; it was not the cry of a drunken man. I laid the next few tiers, as there was an ominous silence. Then, the sound of furious vibrations of the chain was to be heard. This lasted several minutes, and I had sat down among the bones to enjoy it all the more. When at last the clanking ceased, I resumed my labor. Five, six, seven tiers high; the wall was now nearly level with my chest, and I paused, sending a few small rays of light from my torch into the depths of the chasm to the figure within.

A succession of loud and shrill screams from him seemed to thrust me back. For a brief moment, I hesitated—I trembled. Then, the thought of an instant reassured me, and I reapproached the wall. I re-echoed it, shrieked even louder than he did, until the clamor grew still.

My task was drawing to a close with the tenth, the eleventh tier. There was now only one brick left to put into place. I hefted its great weight, putting it partly into position. But now came a low laugh from inside the niche, and I hesitated. It was succeeded by a sad voice.

"Ha! Ha!—a very good joke—an excellent jest. We will laugh about this for many days to come!—he! He!—over our wine!"

"The Amontillado!" I said.

"He! He!—yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will they not be waiting for us as the fairgrounds? Let us be gone."

"Yes," I said, "let us be gone."

_"For the love of God, Crowley!"_

"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!

But to these words, there was no reply. I got impatient. I called his name aloud,

"Halt!"

No answer. I called again,

"Halt!"

Still nothing. I tied a small string with a dangling item to the torch, letting it fall into the other side. There was only the jingling of bells. My heart grew sick—because of the dampness of the air. Hurrying to end my labor, I forced the last stone into position, plastered it up. If Halt is not clever enough to find his way out of the trap, I suppose he deserves to die. Someday, someone will tear this wall down, and may just find a skeleton shackled to the walls, with bits of a tattered Ranger cloak clinging to the bones. Until then, _in pace requiescat!_

(may he rest in peace!)

_Finis_

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**A/N: **my disclaimer: None of this belongs to me. The story, plot, and general writing and publication are the rights of the master of macabre, Mr. Edgar Allen Poe. The names of the characters (Crowley, Halt) belong to the Ranger's Apprentice series, and in effect the amazing author John Flanagan! I take credit solely for the slight morphing and condensing of Poe's story, for incorporating it with Ranger's Apprentice, and for the name of my character that never occurred in the story, but was just a name. So any OOCness was because it was in Poe's story.

So, did you guess that it was Halt? If so, when did you realize?


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